


When I Picture Myself Happy

by peacefrog



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 9x12 Coda, Angst, Drabble, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 12:49:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacefrog/pseuds/peacefrog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“When I picture myself happy, it’s with you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	When I Picture Myself Happy

“You’ve been drinking,” Cas knows right away.

And how could he not, when Dean calls at 3am, voice a gruff drawl into the receiver.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” he breathes out, his tongue sits heavy in his mouth, voice just this side of being slurred.

“I know, Dean, I—” Cas manages before Dean cuts him off.

“I wasn’t there for you…” he chokes on the words as he speaks.

“There have been many times when I wasn’t there for you, as well, Dean.” Cas’ voice is soft, comforting. Every word twinged in forgiveness.

Dean presses the bottle to his lips, takes a long swig, then another. Whiskey further dulling his senses, but making his heart ache for home all the same. He recalls a night years previous, when the world was at it’s end, he and Cas sat on the hood of the Impala passing a bottle back and forth. Dean ended up wasted, Cas not a bit less sober than when they began. Cas put him to bed that night, tucked him in, watched over him until he was snoring into his pillow. Dean longs for that now, just his presence, solid and protective beside him.

“Can I come to you?” Cas asks, a plea he knows is in vain.

“Don’t…” Dean’s voice is wrecked, from whiskey, from too many nights with too little sleep. From too many failed attempts at not sobbing into his fists until he could no longer breathe.

“It would make me very happy to see you, Dean.” Cas’ voice is dripping with sincerity, with honesty.

“When I picture myself happy, it’s with you.” Dean’s words are slurred now, head swimming with things he shouldn’t say, but sit perched on the tip of his tongue. Already he has said too much.

“Dean—”

“Goodnight, Cas,” the words are barely audible, a heavy whisper, and with that he ends the call.

He drinks until the world blurs around him and the empty bottle falls from his hand to the floor. He passes out in his boots, limbs hanging off the sagging motel mattress, his heart a heavy mess inside his chest.


End file.
